


uncurling lifelines

by finkpishnets



Series: various storms and saints [1]
Category: Frey & McGray Series - Oscar de Muriel
Genre: Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poltergeists, Post-Book 4: Loch of the Dead, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 13:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17044964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finkpishnets/pseuds/finkpishnets
Summary: poltergeist[ˈpōl∙tər∙ˌgīst]noun.1.a ghost or other supernatural being supposedly responsible for physical disturbances such as making loud noises and throwing objects about.or:phantasm['fan∙ˌta∙zəm]noun.1.a figment of the imagination.





	uncurling lifelines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



> My dear recipient!
> 
> First things first, I'm very sorry this is in third person, and I am sorry that you therefore have to put up with Frey being constantly described as Ian. To be honest, he's the sort of man who probably _would_ think of himself by his surname, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I'm also sorry if I've butchered McGray's speech patterns. I tried my hardest, but I'm sure I've missed a couple of obvious ones.
> 
> Secondly, I did not intend to write _this_ story. I knew I wanted to write something post- _Loch of the Dead_ , because it was not only an excellent book, but the character development was leaps and bounds above the previous instalments. I did not in any way intend to write a ghost story rooted in grief, and such a handwavy one at that, but I hope you like it all the same.
> 
> Thank you so much for nominating this. I have the feeling my identity won't be a huge secret before reveals on account of about five people on the internet having read these books, but all the same, I was so excited when I wasn't the only one enthusiastic about Frey and McGray and their ridiculous adventures, and I was genuinely thrilled when I received my assignment.
> 
> Happy Yuletide, friend, and if you ever want to come shout at me about these two messy, reckless, stubborn idiots then I would genuinely love that ♥︎

 

 

The funeral takes place on a Tuesday afternoon. The Gloucestershire air is thick with rain, and the sea of black umbrellas feels too much like an omen to sit comfortably.

Next to him, Elgie bites back quiet sobs, and Ian has to grit his teeth to stop from following suit. Perfect as it is, the cut of his jacket feels suffocating across his shoulders, his tie choking, and he can barely hear the vicar’s words over the dull pounding in his own ears. 

It all feels so _wrong_.

Uncle Maurice was a man of exaggeration, of exuberance and drama and joy, of bright colours and loud laughter. All that seems to be left is black and white and grey, and Ian knows he’s being melodramatic but maybe that’s the least his uncle deserves of him now.

The crowd as they trudge back through the mud to the house is a large one. Uncle Maurice made friends easily, and Ian barely recognises a fraction of the present faces but they’re happy to fill him in, telling him one outrageous story after the next. It’s the perfect picture of an archetype of a man, and Ian greedily listens to every tall-tale anyway.

McGray finds him in the orangery, downing his fifth drink and trying to stop his hands from shaking, taking the glass from him with a sigh and turning up his nose at the contents. His mourning jacket strains at the seams of his upper arms and the hemline is beginning to fray, and Ian wonders if he’s just inappropriately dressed or if the suit’s been sat at the back of his wardrobe since—

Well. 

“If yer gonna get sloshed, at least do it properly,” McGray says, though his words lack their usual bite, and Ian hates him a little for it even as he tries not to think of a younger McGray, ‘Nine-Nails’ new and cruel and forced upon him, wearing the same suit on a day much like this one.

“We just buried my uncle, and the cellars are now officially my property. If I want to make a decent dent in them today, I _can_.” Ian snatches his glass back and offers a half-hearted glare that McGray doesn’t even have the grace to pretend to take seriously.

“Come on,” McGray says. “Yer brother’s looking for ye. All these people’ll bugger off soon enough, and then ye can get bladdered and smash things to yer heart’s content.”

Ian snorts before he can help it, and obediently follows McGray back into the swarm, begrudgingly glad for his presence.

The rest of the afternoon seems to drag on, and the estate’s staff work seamlessly under Layton’s care to make sure everyone’s glass is full and the exceptional buffet is never short of anything. Ian’s always been impressed by the workings of his uncle’s household, and it’s strange to now look at them and know they fall under his own purvey. 

Eventually the last of the mourners takes their leave, offering a spill of kind words that amount to little more than empty pleasantries, and then it’s just Ian and Elgie and McGray and the silent efficiency of the staff.

McGray may not have been serious about smashing things, but Ian’s considering it all the same. 

“Here,” McGray says, as if sensing his thoughts, handing him a glass of whisky full far beyond the point of socially acceptable. Ian downs it in three gulps and hands it back, the impressed cock of McGray’s eyebrow almost as warming as the burn in his throat.

Elgie’s brow furrows in concern but McGray waves him off.

“Only way he’ll sleep tonight,” he says carelessly, and Ian wants to argue but he knows it’s true, if only because he’s barely slept in weeks.

He thought he knew nightmares, before. He’s beginning to realise what McGray’s seemingly always known: he’s a fool.

“I’m all right, Elgie,” Ian says, trying at least to ease some of his brother’s concern. “I just need some rest.”

“Well,” Eglie says, “if you’re sure…”

“I’ve got him, lad,” McGray says. “Ye look like a light breeze’d send ye sideways. Get some sleep yerself. I’ll make sure yer brother gets his share, too.”

 _Even if I have to knock him out myself_ , the following pause says, and for the shortest of moments everything feels normal.

“I’ll see you at breakfast then,” Elgie says, stopping to wrap his arms around Ian in a tight embrace before slouching away, hands in his pockets, looking every inch of youthful sadness.

“Another?” McGray asks, and Ian nods and doesn’t care about the pounding head he’ll have come morning.

“I don’t need a minder,” Ian says as McGray hands him his glass, and the words sound petulant to his own ears. McGray just snorts.

“‘Course ye do,” he says. “Now shut up and drink yer whisky.”

Ian’s too tired and too drunk to argue.

 

 

**~**

 

 

The house is silent when Ian wakes, tucked into the room he claimed as his own as a precocious eight year old, Layton’s delicate hand evident in the jug of water at his bedside and the low burning fire in the grate. 

Despite the steady flames, the room feels cold. September’s been awash with late summer heat, so the chill is a shock to the system, and his fuzzy head and blurred vision suggests he’s been passed out for little more than a couple of hours. The dreams of wings and blood still hover at the edge of his consciousness, and he presses the palm of his hands into his eyes until he sees spots, bile scratching up his dry throat.

A few deep breaths and he’s steady enough to stand. The fire comes back to life easily enough, but the chill doesn’t ebb, and Ian has to dig through unfamiliar drawers to find his housecoat, rubbing at his arms until the goosebumps begin to fade.

A distant thump jars him truly awake, and Ian frowns at the door until it comes again, loud enough for him to reach for a candle, and seemingly closer. 

If it’s a member of the staff then they’re bound to hear the sharp edge of Layton’s tongue come morning, and if it’s McGray stomping around in his insomnia then Ian will have some cutting words of his own.

The door creaks under his hands, sounding too loud against the night, and Ian pauses for a moment, straining to listen over the sound of his own rapidly beating heart, unnecessary fear creeping into the corners of his mind.

 _Stupid_ , he thinks, shaking it off, and stepping out into the hall, shadows dancing around him under the direction of his candle. The candle almost goes flying moments later as the sound of smashing glass echoes between the walls and Ian jumps, bashing his shoulder against the panelling hard enough to bruise.

Forcing himself to calm down, Ian heads towards the sound of destruction, surprised not to run into half the household investigating. 

He’s reached the back stairs when he sees the glow under the door, pale and dim and nothing like the flames from the candles or grates. It makes him shudder, though he can’t say why, and he hesitates before reaching for the handle.

The shock when it comes feels like lightening through his fingertips.

And then, nothing.

 

 

**~**

 

 

“Frey?” someone says. “Oy, Percy!”

Ian’s head shoots up as McGray waves a hand in front of his eyes, frown evident even in the dim light. He’s crouched down to Ian’s level, and it’s only then that Ian realises he’s sat on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, candle extinguished and tipped over on the stone slabs of the kitchen.

“What…?” he starts, trying to make sense of the wheres and hows and coming up blank.

“No clue,” McGray says, understanding the question anyway. His hair’s a tangle of curls and there’s a line on his cheek from where it was recently pressed into his pillow. He looks softer than usual in his simple bedclothes, younger maybe, and Ian thinks briefly that it suits him better than the exuberant, bedraggled armour he wears in waking hours.

“I don’t know how I got here,” Ian admits in little more than a whisper, and McGray nods his head like it doesn’t surprise him. It’s comforting, even if Ian knows very little has surprised Nine-Nails McGray in a long time.

“Come on,” McGray says, offering his hand, and Ian lets him lever him up, holding on for longer than acceptable as he catches his balance. “Let’s get ye back to bed.”

Ian allows McGray to lead the way, and if McGray’s less gruff than usual, if he presses a hand between Ian’s shoulder blades to guide him and looks something that could be construed as concerned then neither of them mention it.

“Wait,” Ian says as they reach his door, the fire still flickering inside. It feels warm now, almost _too_ warm, like the flames and the night air and the coat across his shoulders have all suddenly remembered to exist. “Wait. How did you find me?”

McGray shrugs, unfazed. “Heard ye wanderin’ ‘round. Worried ye’d got back into the wine and gone arse over tit down the cellar stairs.”

“Oh,” Ian says, and doesn’t think about how McGray hadn’t heard the loud thumping or the smashing of the non-existent glass or however Ian had ended up two flights down on the kitchen floor.

“Ye okay?” McGray asks, and there’s the suspicion Ian’s been expecting, dancing at the tip of McGray’s tongue.

 _No_ , Ian thinks.

“Yes,” he says. “Just— A long day and a lot of alcohol.”

McGray watches him closely for a long moment. In the light of day Ian would tense up, get irritated, bite back, but there’s something in the shadows, in the clouds behind his eyes, that has him standing silently as McGray searches for whatever it is he’s looking for. He either finds it or doesn’t, because seconds later he’s rolling his eyes and punching Ian’s arm.

“Aye,” McGray says. “Get some sleep before that headache ye’ve got comin’ gets any worse.”

Ian groans and slips back into his room, climbing swiftly into bed and listening as McGray’s footsteps fade away.

He doesn’t sleep, but at least it’s quiet.

 

 

**~**

 

 

“You look exhausted,” Elgie says when Ian joins them for breakfast. He’s frowning as he says it, all earnest brotherly concern, and if Ian’s brain weren’t making a decided effort to try and burst out of his skull he’s sure he’d appreciate the sentiment a lot more. As it is he just reaches for the coffee pot and tries not to vomit on the table linen.

Across from him, McGray snorts. Only the memory of his help the previous night stops Ian from shooting him a rude gesture.

“Didn’t get much sleep,” he says eventually, and cuts Elgie off before he can be interrogated. “When do you have to leave?”

Elgie sighs. “Later today. I’d gladly stay longer, but rehearsals are at a crucial stage. I hate to think of you here alone, though.”

Ian hates to think about it, too. Once, this house had been more a home than his own, his mother’s childhood and his uncle’s personality in every nook and cranny. Now, it all just looks like shadow and dust.

“Don’t worry,” Ian says, as much for himself as Elgie, refilling his coffee mug and braving a slice of toast. “McGray will stay whilst I finish up here.”

McGray chokes on a mouthful of porridge. “I’ll what now?”

Ian ignores him. “It won’t be much longer,” he assures his brother. “Just until Layton and I have arranged what’s expected of the staff and organised the rest of Uncle Maurice’s affairs.”

“Well,” Elgie says, also dismissing McGray’s protests. Ian thinks perhaps he’s been exposed to the two of them too much to take what they say too seriously. “As long as you promise to write if you need anything. You can always write father, too. I think he’d be thrilled for the excuse to focus on something besides Laurence and Eugenia’s disastrous engagement, honestly.” 

Ian frowns, confused, and even McGray stops glaring at Ian to pay attention.

“Oh,” Elgie says, when he realises he has a captive audience. “It’s only— Well. Miss Ferrars seems to be trying to, uh, rescind her acceptance? Only breaking off _two_ engagements within such a short time and within the same family would look especially bad, so she’s trying to get _Laurence_ to do it, or at least make is _seem_ like it’s Laurence’s doing. It’s all very silly. Father’s exhausted by it all. Keeps refusing to have anything to do with either of them until they stop behaving like children, and that Laurence should never have done anything as ridiculous and ungentlemanly as propose to Miss Ferrars in the first place. I think Mother likes the drama, though, because he can’t seem to get away from any of it.”

“I bet she does,” McGray mutters, and Ian bites back a smile.

“Well,” he says, and then can’t think of how to finish that statement. It appeals to a petty part of him that agrees with his father’s assessment of Laurence and Euginia. He doesn’t _want_ to be the man that wishes ill towards a woman he once claimed to love, but then neither his ex-fiancé nor his brother have ever given much thought to his own feelings, and he can’t pretend he’s not pleased to hear it’s going badly.

“Serves ‘em right,” McGray says in a surprising show of camaraderie. “Bampots, the pair of ‘em.”

Elgie looks unsure as to whether he should be offended on his brother’s behalf and then shrugs it off the way most people do when they can’t understand what McGray’s saying, which is much more frequent now they’re blessedly back on English soil.

After breakfast, Elgie goes to oversee the packing of his belongings, and Ian and McGray retire to the library. The room itself contains little more than popular novels and Ian’s great-great-grandfather’s collection of naval textbooks, none of which either of them would consider readable, but the morning light floods through the floor length windows and the furniture is pleasantly comfortable. A maid brings them more tea, and they sit in companionable silence for a long while.

“I never used to be afraid of the dark,” Ian says. The statement comes as a shock to both of them, and Ian wonders when he stopped being able to keep his mouth shut. McGray would say he never had that talent to begin with, of course, but there’s a difference between talking and _saying_ something.

“Aye,” McGray says, cautiously. He’s been good about not starting any fights recently, and Ian’s not had the energy to do so himself; they’re walking on eggshells, and it’s confusing them both, this new found calm that comes with living through hell and clawing their way out side by side. 

“We’ve had bad cases before…” Ian starts, but McGray waves him off.

“Nah,” he says. “The witches, maybe. Nothin’ like this. It may not ‘ave been the devil himself at play, but what those people were doin’, that was his work all the same, and as close as youse seen of it.”

Ian nods, staring down at his teacup. He’s not sure his hands have stopped shaking in weeks.

He opens his mouth to ask…something. How McGray stands it. How they move on from here. How Ian’s supposed to compartmentalise the rest of his life around grief and horror and the stench of death. The words don’t come, though, and then Elgie’s there, informing them his carriage is ready and he’s sorry to go and making Ian promise three times to write.

The house feels exponentially larger without Elgie between its walls. The efficiency of the staff he’d been so impressed by a day earlier now feels _too_ efficient, everything silent and still except himself and McGray, as though they’re the only life in miles. 

Ian suddenly misses Edinburgh with a fierce intensity he hadn’t know he was capable of.

“You don’t really have to stay,” he says, even though the thought of being truly alone makes him nauseous. 

He and McGray may be partners — an actual, functioning _team_ these days, much to both their surprise — but McGray doesn’t owe Ian _this_. Ian may not be a stranger to grief, but McGray knows it intimately, and to ask him to shoulder Ian’s too, shut down in the Gloucestershire countryside away from the bustle of work and society and _life_ , is more selfish than even Ian’s capable of being.

The look McGray shoots him says he knows all this and more, and Ian wonders not for the first time when they started reading each other so well. 

“Nah,” McGray says. “There’s nae any point goin’ back without ye.” He reaches out and clasps his hand around the curve of Ian’s shoulder; Ian stares at him in surprise, settling better in his own skin when McGray’s familiar smirk makes an appearance and he says, “I’d have to do all the paperwork.”

“God forbid,” Ian deadpans, and McGray’s laugh feels like normality.

 

 

**~**

 

 

Ian’s only just fallen asleep when the thumping starts.

It’s far too loud for footsteps, sounds more like someone’s taking a sledgehammer to the walls, and Ian clutches his bedsheets and prays for it to stop.

Of course it doesn’t. He’s never been that lucky.

The room is once more impossibly cold, and Ian’s sure he can see his own breath in the firelight. His housecoat’s hanging on the back of the door this time, and he reaches for it quickly, picking up a candle and ignoring the wash of fear in his veins.

He knows what fear feels like, knows it too well these days, but this is ridiculous.

The halls are still. Once again it’s just Ian and his candle and the overwhelming sensation that everything’s _wrong_. The sound’s coming from a different part of the house tonight, and Ian forces himself to walk towards it, refusing to let his imagination get the better of him. 

It’s not unheard of that some local criminal has learned of the bereavement and assumed the house empty enough to take advantage, after all. Perfectly logical.

He’s just reached the first floor landing when it the thought of logic vanishes completely.

The sound of crashing glass is deafening, and Ian curls into himself, trying to protect his face from the jagged cuts that slice their way across his hands and feet, the back of his neck, the noise echoing until it threatens to burst his eardrums. 

The candle’s still in his grip, the flame licking too close and catching the tips of his fingers, and Ian finally cries out, dropping it and barely hearing the clatter of silver on floorboards above the chaos.

It hurts, everything _hurts_ , and he hears screaming that must be his own. 

It seems to last an eternity, broken glass and pain, but then there’s arms gripping his, pulling them away from his head, and a familiar voice calling out.

“Layton! I cannae tell what’s wrong. Get bandages and warm water just in case.”

“Yes, sir,” Layton says, and, right, yes, that’s Layton, there, over McGray’s shoulder because _of course_ it’s McGray that’s crouched down next to Ian, trying to unfold his fingers from where they’re curled into his palms and checking him over for injuries. Ian can’t tell why he’s frowning though, why he’s waiting. There must be so much blood, so many cuts to see to before they get infected, but all McGray’s looking at now are his fingers, turning his hand over between his own.

“The windows,” Ian says, trying to tug free of McGray’s hold to no avail.

“What about ‘em?” McGray asks, and when Ian looks up it takes him a long moment to process the walls of perfectly intact glass displaying the clear night sky. 

“But— ”

“Yer fingers are burnt,” McGray says, keeping Ian’s hand clasped between his own giant palms. Ian blinks down at them and has the crazy thought that this is the first time he’s held someone’s hand since the early days of his courtship to Eugenia. “What happened?”

“The candle,” Ian manages, and McGray’s glance shoots to the silver holder rolled against the wall.

“Alrigh’,” McGray says eventually. He’s still looking at Ian’s fingers, and Ian wonders why he’s surprised that McGray’s capable of being gentle when he’s seen it directed at others so often. “Let’s get you a cuppa and a blanket — Christ, Frey, yer freezin’! — and ye can tell me why I’ve found yer crouched on the floor two nights in a row whilst we checks out those burns.”

Ian nods and lets himself be levered off the floor. McGray avoids his hands, his grip going to Ian’s shoulders instead and not letting go all the way down to the kitchen where a frantic maid is putting together tea and toast, her hair barely contained under her work cap.

“Sorry sirs, won’t be a minute,” she says, and Ian sits down with a sigh and lets McGray offer the kind of friendly, patient words he’s only ever really good at when it comes to the working classes.

The maid’s stoked the fire but it’s still low in the grate, and McGray finds a blanket in the boot room and drapes it over Ian’s shoulders, sliding into the seat opposite and waiting in silence until the maid curtsies and leaves them be with a promise to call should they need anything.

“I heard noises,” Ian says, before McGray can interrogate him, “and I went to investigate, and I thought—”

“Ye thought somethin’ happened to the windows,” McGray says, and Ian nods because it’s not like he can lie about it now. He’s so _tired_ and the phantom pain of imaginary cuts is still sharp against his skin, though now the burns on his fingertips seem more pressing.

Reading his mind, McGray reaches out for his hand again and the ointment and bandages laid out by Layton, attending to Ian’s injuries with perfunctory care.

“I thought they all smashed,” Ian says honestly. “I thought the glass was raining down on me. I could have _sworn_ it was.”

McGray focuses on his task for a moment, and when he looks up his eyes are serious and kind and Ian wants to punch him in the jaw just to wipe it away.

“How much sleep’ve ye had lately?” McGray asks, and Ian glares at him.

“More than you, I’d wager,” he says, and McGray rolls his eyes.

“Aye, but I’m used to it,” he says, humouring him. “I’d garner ye need at least six hours a night to function.”

He not wrong. He’s not _wrong_ , and Ian hates it. He’s been lucky to steal an hour or two a night in _weeks_ , his eyes dry with exhaustion and his skin getting paler by the day. If he weren’t so stringent about his morning routine and if Layton weren’t so good at his job, he’s sure he’d look _awful_.

“You think I’m imagining things,” he says when McGray’s words start making sense.

“I _think_ ye just buried yer uncle and ye haven’t slept since Loch Maree, and naught could be said against ye if it’s takin’ a while to process everythin’.”

“You think I’m imagining things,” Ian repeats. “ _You_. The man who sees the paranormal in his morning cup of coffee?”

“Hey,” McGray protests, and Ian snorts and looks deliberately away. “ _Hey_ ,” McGray says again, calmer this time, grabbing for Ian’s attention, and Ian hesitates before biting his lip and meeting McGray’s eye. “I’m not doubting’ ye. I just know the kind o’ tricks grief can play. A full rest and the light o’ day and youse’ll be blamin’ _me_ for makin’ ye see things.”

Before the Kolomans he’d have been right. 

Ian still doesn’t believe in the things McGray believes in. He doesn’t believe in ghouls and vampires and magic spells, in werewolves and demons. He _does_ believe in curses; in the cruelty of people and the desperation that leads men to insanity. He believes that there’s a darkness in the world he hadn’t been able to see before, and now it’s there in every shadow and behind closed eyes.

“All right,” Ian says eventually, because there are no cuts on his skin and his eyelids are falling shut on themselves, and because he knows he isn’t behaving like himself.

McGray looks relieved, tapping Ian’s wrist with two fingers before standing, and Ian makes himself follow suit. There’s movement now as the house begins to come to life, dawn threatening the horizon, and Ian wonders how long he was crouched on the stairs before his cries attracted McGray, and shivers at the implication.

“Youse gonna be okay?” McGray asks, walking him as far as his room and leaning against the doorway as Ian slips out of his housecoat.

“I may not make breakfast,” Ian jokes, and McGray lets out a gruff laugh.

“Aye, nor me.” He stays where he is for a moment longer, and Ian feels awkward beneath his gaze. “Yell if ye need anythin’.”

Ian swallows and nods, and McGray raps his knuckles against the door twice before leaving Ian alone, heading towards his own bed. 

The sun’s beginning to rise by the time he gets under the sheets, and Ian’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

 

 

**~**

 

 

Ian spends the next day in town, meeting with his uncle’s solicitor and wrapping up any outstanding bills with the local tradespeople. He’d slept until eleven o’clock, feeling groggy but refreshed, and taken the opportunity to see to as many of his tasks as possible. He doesn’t want to expressly _say_ that the sooner everything’s dealt with, the sooner he and McGray can return to Edinburgh, but he’s sure it’s evident in his thorough but speedy approach to his duties.

McGray, at least, seems to approve, accompanying Ian as far as the local pub and talking him into a late lunch when the barmaid mentions fresh made chicken pie with gravy. The food’s fine, nowhere near as good as McGray attests, but Ian’s happy to let the time away from the estate drag into another pint of beer. They’re both in better spirits by the time they leave, and Ian’s almost looking forward to an evening in the cosiest drawing room, playing cards with a glass of Bordeaux.

The previous night feels like a fever dream, and Ian always hates to admit when McGray’s right, but in this case he has to hand it to him. Six hours of undisturbed sleep and a day of fresh air and society has left Ian feeling more than a little foolish, and he’s glad that whatever companionship has settled over them has stopped McGray from crowing about it. 

He does, however, refuse to play any card game Ian’s ever heard of, and the one they settle on seems to be made up entirely of impolite words and rules that change given McGray’s mood.

Despite his protests, Ian can’t find it in himself to mind all that much.

 

 

**~**

 

 

He’s going mad.

It’s the only explanation. His room is bitterly cold and and the thumping seems to reverberate through the walls themselves, and he shouldn’t be this tired, not tonight, but he can barely keep his eyes open and he can’t get back to sleep, and the claws of nightmare still have their grip on the corners of his mind.

He wants to lock the door and crawl under his blanket like he did as a child, when the sky would rock with thunder during their summer visits and he’d imagine he could hear his mother singing lullabies to him until he was no longer scared.

His previous attempts at investigation have left him practically catatonic, but if he stays it’ll be too loud to sleep and tomorrow will be wasted, another day stuck in the Gloucestershire countryside instead of returning to the comforts of Great King Street, where Joan will load Larry down with more food than Ian could ever eat and pretend it’s not because she’s worried about him. Where their next inevitably ridiculous case awaits, bound to lead to arguments and danger and hours of research buried amongst McGray’s library of the bizarre. Where he’s started to feel at _home_ , and isn’t that thought almost as terrifying as the floorboards shaking beneath his feet.

He’s moving before he’s aware of it, heading down the hall and away from the worst of the noise, and hesitating outside the door at the other end of the wing, hand raised to knock. There’s a crash somewhere downstairs, and Ian changes his mind and slips into the room without ceremony, letting his eyes adjust to the flood of moonlight through the open curtains. 

There’s a low, waking noise from the bed, and Ian lets out a deep breath and hates that he already feels on steadier ground.

“It’s me,” he says, as though that explains his presence in McGray’s bedchamber in the middle of the night. McGray exhales and turns to look at him, sleep ruffled and drowsy, before sitting up and running a hand through his hair.

“Frey?” he asks, gruff and confused, and Ian’s honestly surprised McGray’s not acted on his baser instincts and attacked him first, asked questions later. He wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a gun somewhere within reaching distance.

“Yes,” he says quickly. “I— I take it you can’t hear that?” 

McGray stares at him for a few seconds before shaking his head. “I cannae hear anythin’,” he says, though he sounds sorry for it, and Ian nods dejectedly, crossing his arms over his chest and feeling young and foolish and scared.

He’s just so _cold_ , so _tired_ , and McGray’s been so uncharacteristically kind towards him since Loch Maree, and that’s the only excuse he has for the words that escape him.

“Can I stay here tonight?”

He expects an instant “no”, if not to be physically and roughly removed from the room. Instead, McGray blinks at him before lying back down, and Ian’s struck with the horrifying realisation that he’s finally done it, he’s finally pushed Adolphus “Nine-Nails” McGray too far. 

“Well?” McGray says, voice sleep-fuddled. “Are youse gettin’ in or not? I can put up with yer company but I cannae cope with ye starin’ at me all night.”

Ian hadn’t meant to share his bed, of course. He’d have been happy enough with the chair in the corner, upright and fashionable but hell on the back, or even the floor, if he had to. His teeth are still chattering, though, and the blankets look so appealing, and McGray _offered_ , and Ian can’t hold on to the last threads of his propriety any longer.

The mattress is warm, like McGray is used to taking up the whole space, and Ian breathes a sigh of relief as he pulls the bedsheets up to his chin, curling into himself as much as possible. McGray’s still watching him through hooded eyes, and Ian wants to be embarrassed, knows he’ll be mortified come morning, but all he can think is that the noises have stopped.

There’s comfort in knowing that if it _is_ all in his mind, at least McGray understands madness better than most people ever could.

It’s a surprisingly calming thought to fall asleep to.

 

 

**~**

 

 

There’s a bright light burning through his closed eyelids, and when Ian tries to shy away from it he finds himself pinned down by a heavy weight across his chest. A moment of frozen panic later, McGray breathes out a quiet snore and Ian remembers exactly where he is and how he got here.

It’s McGray’s arm slung over him, his face close enough that Ian can feel his breath against the shell of his ear, and _God_. 

Ian can honestly say that this isn’t a place he ever thought he’d end up.

It’s late morning judging by the sun, and there’s a dull ache in his stomach telling him he’s long missed breakfast. He should get up and return to his own room for propriety’s sake, though so late in the day there’s no chance that his absence hasn’t already been noted. Someone has most likely come to wake McGray already and found them both…

Well.

Like _this_.

Once they leave, he may never be able to step foot in this house again.

“Stop it,” McGray says, shifting against the mattress, and Ian starts.

“I’m not doing anything,” he protests, because he’s _not_ , and also because McGray naturally brings out the contrary in him.

“I could hear yer brain workin’ in my sleep.” The words break on a yawn, and he finally raises the arm holding Ian down to catch it. There’s still barely any space between them, but it settles the flush on Ian’s cheeks a little.

“McGray—” Ian starts, fighting pride to dig up an appropriate apology for his actions the previous night, but McGray cuts him off, rolling onto his back. 

“Shut up,” he says, though not unkindly. “ _Did_ ye sleep?”

“…Yes,” Ian admits, and then because he may as well: “Better than I have since.”

“Aye,” McGray says, unsurprised, and it sounds like an agreement. McGray’s never slept much in all the time Ian’s known him, but he wonders now if Loch Maree didn’t make that worse for him as well.

“Thank you,” Ian says, because it needs said even if it leaves him feeling awkward and uncomfortable.

McGray snorts. “Yer welcome,” he says, and the sarcasm goes a long way to helping Ian feel a little more normal, but then McGray adds: “S’not like it’s the first time I’ve shared my bed with a fella,” and Ian’s brain whites out.

When he accidentally meets McGray’s eyes, they’re glittering with challenge and mischief, and Ian’s not sure whether to hit him or fling himself from the bed or ask him questions because—

_Because._

“Well,” he says instead, and sends up a prayer when his voice stays even and prim, “I’m sure it’s the first time you’ve shared it with a _gentleman_.”

There’s a pause before McGray loses it, his guffaws loud and breathless, and Ian’s highly embarrassed of him and intensely proud of himself for being the one to make McGray lose control this way. 

Not that he doesn’t have questions — many, _many_ of them — but he’s also aware of what this is. All his vulnerabilities have been laid bare over the last month, forcibly exposed to anyone close enough to look, and given freely to McGray out of desperation and loneliness and fear. This is McGray repaying the favour — a secret for a secret, albeit a dangerous one — and maybe once Ian would have responded differently, would have stuck up his nose and followed societies rules to the letter, but most of society weren’t there the day his uncle’s throat was slit and he and McGray were left to row away from hell on little more than a prayer, and those that _were_ wore the faces of evil Ian once thought only visible in McGray’s unorthodox reading materials.

The bond that was formed on that small, terrible island outweighs almost anything.

Maybe not the pressure on his bladder, though. 

“At least my madness seems to only extend to the night,” he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and dreading to think what his hair must look like. “Though, I’m _here_ , so maybe not.”

“Yer hilarious,” McGray says, stretching his arms over his head. His nightshirt raises a few inches and Ian quickly averts his gaze. “Christ, yer not gonna make me sit through another meeting with yer lawyer today are ye?”

“God, no. I think the man’s afraid of you. I can’t begin to imagine why.”

“Excellent,” McGray says. “In that case, I’m gonna go for a walk. A proper one where I dinnae have to listen to ye go on about yer legs hurtin’ and a cart bein’ quicker.”

“You do that,” Ian says. “But if you fall in a ditch I can’t promise I’ll remember to come looking for you.”

McGray throws a crude gesture at him, and Ian takes it as his cue to leave, grateful not to run into a member of staff on his way out.

At least he has plausible deniability on his side.

 

 

**~**

 

 

McGray sticks to his word and heads out shortly after lunch. Ian tries not to meet Layton’s eye, but if the valet has any idea where Ian woke up, he’s pretending otherwise. Ian’s reminded that the man put up with his uncle’s antics for many years, and heaven knows they would have involved far more scandalous things than a man sharing a bed with his colleague for warmth and safety.

McGray’s hardly a guest, but his absence seems as good a time as any to meet with the staff and run through names and jobs and the expectations he has of them and vice versa. He’s not too worried — his uncle would only have hired people he trusted to do their work well, he’s sure — and after an hour he’s confident that the household can run itself without his intervention until Christmas at the least.

There are letters waiting for him in the study, and he rifles through them to check there’s none for McGray before settling in with a cup of tea to handle the rest. McGray’s trying to hide it, but Ian knows how anxious he is to hear back from Doctor Clouston; there’s no doubt in Ian’s mind that the waters are nothing more than they appear, whatever the Nalapsi family believed, but anything that brings McGray hope regarding Pansy is off limits.

There’s a few bills and a long overdue letter of condolence from Oliver, but mostly it’s paperwork for him to sign and correspondences for him to keep up with, enough to keep him occupied.

He’s replying to an enquiry from his accountant when there’s a loud thump against the adjacent wall. Ink drips onto the paper, catching his fingers as Ian jolts in surprise, and he curses, reaching for his handkerchief even as he’s rising to his feet.

The hallway outside is empty, because _of course_ it is.

In waking hours it’s easy to feel the temperature around him plummet, and he narrows his eyes even as fear begins to creep into his veins. 

“All right,” he says, irritated when his voice shakes. “Talking to myself may be further proof of madness, but just in case this _isn’t_ all in my mind…” He stands up tall. The late afternoon sun’s pouring in though the window panes, he’s more awake than he’s been in weeks, and he _refuses_ to be intimidated whilst he can still hear _birdsong_. “Show yourself!”

There’s a silent pause, and then the walls themselves begin to shake. The portraits of long dead Plantard’s rattle in their frames, and the watercolour above the fireplace drops to the floor with an almighty clatter. It’s as though Ian’s standing in the eye of a storm, walking backwards until his thighs press against the desk, gripping the edge with white knuckles.

He’s considering making a break for it before the doorknob turns, and Ian freezes, prepared for…he doesn’t know what, but certainly nothing good. The door swinging open seems to break the spell, though, and as quickly as it had come, the room is perfectly still. 

A young maid peers into the room and turns horrified eyes on. Behind him, the portrait of Great Grandfather Charles gives up the fight and falls from its hook.

“I can assure you,” Ian says calmly, meeting the girl’s eyes, “that this _wasn’t me_.”

She doesn’t look like she believes him, but then he can’t really blame her. He sighs and waves a hand.

“If you would?”

She darts into the room, offering him a wide berth, and starts putting things back in their rightful place, letting out a small sound of despair when she spots the dented frames. 

Ian can’t bring himself to care, though. Those paintings didn’t just spontaneously fall from the walls, and Ian’s finally _sure_ he’s not imagining _anything_.

It’s enough to warm the fear into anger.

“Excuse me,” he says politely, and goes to find answers.

 

 

**~**

 

 

Ian hears Layton greet McGray in the entrance hall, his words low but frantic, and the next moment McGray’s barging into the library, stopping short when he finds Ian bent over the central table.

“What,” McGray says, voice carefully controlled, “the buggering _hell_ are ye doing?”

“Research,” Ian says, and refrains from adding the ‘ _obviously_ ’ at the tip of his tongue.

McGray shakes his head and stomps further into the room, tracking muddy boots on the rug. Ian would shout at him but he’s far too occupied, and besides, telling him off is the head housekeeper’s job.

“Are those my books?” McGray explains. “Explain yerself. Now.”

Ian rolls his eyes, but truthfully he could use McGray’s input, and, yes, technically he _had_ gone through McGray’s things, sure he must have brought _something_ useful with him. 

“Aha!” he says, finding the right paragraph and then shoving the book under McGray’s nose. “Poltergeist!”

“What the fuck…” McGray starts, but he takes the book, eyes flitting over the words, and Ian waits, tapping his fingers against the table.

“A poltergeist,” he repeats when it seems McGray’s done. “ _That’s_ what your ridiculous books think I’m hearing, I’m sure of it.”

“Right,” McGray says, and Ian’s too used to seeing his ‘I think you’re crazy but I’m listening’ look to let it stop his flow.

“There’s not much — I wish we had your library to hand, honestly, Gloucestershire is such a _nuisance_ — but _this_ book says that poltergeists are responsible for unexplained noises and the breaking of things, and _this_ book suggests that they _could_ be linked to the energy in a place, though apparently that’s wildly disputed, but it would make _sense_ , wouldn’t it? With all the grief?” Ian waves a hand at himself and the room around him, expecting McGray to keep up. “Also the portraits in the library fell off the wall earlier, so it’s not just happening when I’m half asleep and exhausted — I slept perfectly well, thank you for that — so there’s no doubting what I saw, and it all seems to be the work of a mischievous spirit.”

He takes a deep breath and looks at McGray expectantly.

McGray’s mouth opens and closes a few times as he stares at him, until eventually he says, “Percy, ye don’t _believe_ in any of this.” 

It’s kind and gentle and _true_. 

Ian waves him off because it’s also unimportant. “Of _course_ I don’t,” he says. “But unless the staff are all playing a particularly horrible practical joke — and don’t think I haven’t thought of that — then _something_ is happening, and this checks the most boxes, and I’d like it to _stop_.”

McGray sits down in the closest chair, the legs creaking under him at the suddenness. He looks back down at the book and then up at Ian, and then raises a hand to rub at his temple.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’m nay saying I still don’t think youse should take a few days outta this house, and that youse’ve got a _lot_ going on right now, but say I believed ye…”

“Yes?” Ian asks, leaning forward eagerly. There’s a frown between McGray’s eyes, like he can’t quite believe they’re having this conversation, and Ian _knows_ , but there will be plenty of time to sort out this overhaul in their dynamic _later_ , when Ian’s not being haunted by an entity he refuses to believe in.

“If I _did_ believe ye, I’d say we needed a man of the cloth,” McGray says, pointedly, and Ian nods in understanding.

“An exorcism!”

“Aye, exactly,” McGray says, though he doesn’t look pleased about it. “I dinnae ken where the nearest church that’ll agree is, but youse’d want to send for someone. A spiritualist may be a better bet.”

“Anything else?” Ian asks, and McGray sighs, exasperated.

“I dinnae ken, Frey! I dinnae expect to ever have these conversations with ye without ye shouting me down!”

Ian rolls his eyes. “I promise to get back to telling you how preposterous will o’ the wisps and sea monsters and fortune tellers are as soon as we’re done here.”

“…Christ,” McGray says. He takes a deep breath and puts his elbows on his knees. “Okay, so there’s the exorcism, but I cannae promise youse’ll find someone willing to perform one out here. Youse can try smudging the place with sage as well — not a bad idea in general — but, otherwise I dinnae ken without my books.”

Ian nods. “We’ll write to George and see if he can send any along just in case, but that could take far too long, and I’d rather everything in this house _not_ be destroyed just as I’ve inherited it.”

“I cannae believe I’m saying this,” McGray says as they’re piling the books back up, “but I think I preferred when ye were being a contrary bastard.”

“Can I have that in writing?” Ian jokes, and McGray snorts. 

“I should clean up for dinner,” he says, crinkling his nose as if he’s only just noticing the state of himself. He probably _is_ given that Ian’s been far too preoccupied to call him out on it as he usually would.

“Myself and the entire household thank you.”

McGray curses him on his way out the door.

Ian feels better already.

 

 

**~**

 

 

Dinner’s a casual affair, the formation of something like a _plan_ leaving Ian happy and loose, and by the time he retires he’s pleasantly sleepy and grateful for McGray’s company. It’s as though the last barrier has been torn down and they’re finally able to accept that they really are partners — dare he say _friends_ — and their conversations tonight echoed that in the easy, personal slide between topics.

For two especially guarded men, it’s quite the achievement.

Perhaps that’s why sleep comes so easily.

He dreams of the previous night, of slipping into McGray’s room and asking to stay, only this time he’s not afraid of being rejected.

“Are ye okay?” Dream McGray asks, and his concern is a warm feeling in Ian’s chest.

“Yes,” he hears himself say. “I just— Please?”

Dream McGray nods and watches Ian closely as he slips between the sheets. The bed’s as toasty and comfortable as he remembers, and he lets himself stretch out until his foot presses against McGray’s calf, and he just…doesn’t move away.

Somewhere, even in the dream, he knows he should, but McGray’s a warm, solid presence — _important_ to Ian, more important than he would ever admit whilst awake — and all the questions about McGray’s prior bed partners have been stuck in a constant, persistent part of his mind, pushed away due to necessity but still aching to be solved.

He’s _curious_.

Ian’s never thought about men in that way. Or, he supposes he _may_ have, but so much of his life has been tied up in obeying societal expectations. The only time he’s acted out of his own interest is when he’d joined the police force against his father’s wishes; everything after that has been a running list of dos and don’ts, so formal and precise.

He’s not sure he’s ever truly _wanted_ anything.

He’s spent so long insisting he wants to return to London, and yet the truth is that his life there was little more than a series of fitting in. Life since he met McGray has been anything but usual, anything but _safe_ , and most of it he could do without, but the rest? Those moments of adrenaline and action and success?

They’ve felt like so much _more_. 

“Frey?” Dream McGray asks, and Ian smiles, unashamed of staring when he can take his time. “Percy?”

“I like when you call me that,” he admits. He’s always hated his middle name but there’s something about the way McGray says it, like it’s a secret passed between them. An inside joke. 

Dream McGray’s eyes flash, dark and dangerous, and Ian hums in approval.

He’s never met anyone as passionate as Adolphus McGray.

It’s easy to look at him and think he’s built of nothing but anger and bitterness and regret, but Ian knows better now. McGray fights for what he believes in but he truly goes to _battle_ for what he _loves_.

“Careful,” Dream McGray warns, low and rough, and Ian’s toes curl. “I don’t think ye know what yer doing.”

“What _am_ I doing?” Ian asks, and in the dream his whole body flushes with warm promise. He doesn’t think he could feel more content, but then McGray growls under his breath and _God_. 

Ian’s never dreamt this vividly before, but it’s certainly a pleasant way to start.

Dream McGray’s lifts his hand and hesitates before sliding his fingers through Ian’s hair, the nails scratching lightly at his scalp, and Ian gladly presses into it.

He’s not used to being touched. His family has never been a tactile one, not since his mother, and his relationship with Eugenia was a terribly _proper_ one. He’s been intimate before, of course, back in his University days with young women who had grander plans in life than the long-term affections of an uptight student. 

No one’s ever touched him like _this_ , though. Another thing he didn’t realise he so badly wanted.

Dream McGray’s still _looking_ at him that way, like Ian’s a surprise but (maybe, possibly) a good one, and Ian reaches out to curl his own palm around the curve of McGray’s hip, the dream-state ridding him of any tentativeness.

“Percy,” Dream McGray says again, a sigh in the space between them, and Ian draws instinctively closer, no longer surprised that his imagination’s drawn him here, not when McGray’s approval and affection make so much sense.

Ian badly wants to be something McGray loves.

He thinks maybe he has for a very long time.

The space between them seems to be slowly vanishing, and Ian doesn’t know what will happen next but he’s always been a keen observer and — McGray aside — _very_ good at following instructions.

“I’m gonna kiss ye now,” Dream McGray says, and a small, broken sound falls from Ian’s lips without his permission.

“Yes,” he says, because it’s abundantly clear that this is where the dream was leading. Their relationship has been one of extremes since the start, and in hindsight it seems inevitable that Ian should expect, somewhere in the corners of his mind, for it to end up _here_.

Dream McGray leans closer, and Ian waits patiently, the anticipation in his veins an entirely new feeling. He can see the glint of moonlight in Dream McGrey’s eyes, feel the warmth of his breath against his lips, and then—

Then he’s awake and McGray’s still there.

The panic is sudden and consuming, but the ‘dream’ is still hovering, every overwhelming emotion and revealing wish, and McGray’s still watching him like _that_ , and Ian could turn his head away, has the time, but—

But he doesn’t want to.

The kiss when it comes is firm but gentle, and McGray — the solid, _real_ McGray — is holding himself above him, drawing Ian’s lip between his own, and it’s too much and not enough at once.

Ian wraps his arms around McGray’s neck and pulls him closer still, wondering what it would feel like to have the whole of his weight pressing Ian into the mattress, what it would feel like to be touched all over with that same, gentle intensity.

The kiss doesn’t last long, and McGray’s eyes are searching when he lies back.

“I—” Ian starts, but the confidence he’d felt when he was asleep is seeping away. He wants to trap it, live in it, but instead he feels the flush spread across his cheekbones and he can’t meet McGray’s eyes.

“Percy?” McGray says, questioning, and Ian flinches, remembering his earlier words and barely believing he’d let himself be so brash even within the safety of a dream.

The fact that he’d meant it so deeply only makes it worse.

He watches McGray’s thoughts play out across his face, confusion to frustration to slow, drawing horror, and wishes he could stop it in its tracks.

“Frey?” McGray asks this time, and he’s using the professional tone he uses when he’s barely holding himself together. “S’that you?”

“Yes,” Ian says, and then, because he needs McGray to believe him, and because he needs McGray’s help. “But I don’t think it was for a while there. I— I fell asleep and thought I was dreaming, and then…”

“Christ,” McGray says, and he’s sitting up, drawing back, and Ian’s reaching for him before he can move too far. “So you were…? _Shit_. I’m so sorry, I—”

“No,” Ian says adamantly. “I _wasn’t_. I mean, I woke up. Before. I woke _up_. That was me.”

McGray doesn’t believe him, he can tell, and Ian rises to his knees and takes McGray’s arm in his hands, desperately trying to keep the physical connection.

“It was _me_ ,” he repeats, putting as much honesty into the words as he can. He can’t let McGray think…

No.

“But it wasn’t before,” McGray says, and he’s not trying to pull away anymore but he’s still using his work voice.

“I don’t know _what_ that was,” Ian says. “The poltergeist, I expect.”

“Fuck,” McGray says, and, well.

That pretty much sums it up.

McGray looks down at where Ian’s holding his arm for a while, and Ian waits, letting McGray process even as he’s aware he’ll need a long while to do so himself once the shock wears off and he locates the last shreds of his dignity.

“Ye said ye were dreaming?” McGray says, and Ian understands what he’s asking and pushes aside his own embarrassment to answer.

“I was dreaming of this,” he says. “Of you. Of—” He squeezes his eyes shut and reaches for the fading strands of his bravery. “Of _us_.”

McGray nods, still staring at the spot where Ian’s fingers circle his arm.

“Ye should go back to yer room, try and get some sleep,” he says, and Ian’s heart gets trapped somewhere below his throat. “We’ve got work to do tomorrow if we’re gonna get rid of this damned spirit.”

“All right,” Ian says, finally letting go. He rushes to climb off the bed and reach the door, humiliation practically draped across his shoulders.

Before he can make his less than dignified exit, McGray calls his name.

“Anythin’ else happens, ye yell, okay?” 

That concern — the one that speaks of layers of complicated, unspoken connection — is back, and it’s that alone that makes Ian turn briefly around.

“I promise.”

 

 

**~**

 

 

He snatches a few hours of restless sleep and then spends his morning attempting to avoid McGray; it seems they have the same idea as it’s far easier than it reasonably should be.

The first letter from Elgie arrives whilst Ian’s eating his breakfast in the rarely used conservatory, and it’s filled with details of his journey and overly earnest enquiries into Ian’s health considering they’ve only been separated a few days.

To be fair, at this point it _does_ seem as though Ian’s being personally targeted by a spirit capable of possession, but Elgie has absolutely no way of knowing that so, really, his worry is touching but rather too much.

By lunch he still hasn’t heard back from the local clergymen he’s sent carefully worded messages to, and he’s run out of McGray’s books to read. The Plantard library is as useless as it appeared on first glance, full of nothing but outdated naval maps and the twaddle of men who think the height of literature is describing their achievements in battle.

He’s about to throw caution to the wind and see if he can call back the spirit the way he did in the study — a truly ridiculous idea, but given the previous night, his immense embarrassment, and the fact that he can’t seem to stop touching his lips, unable to chase the taste of McGray from his tongue, perhaps a necessary one — when the doorbell chimes.

Moments later, the same young maid as yesterday appears, looking concerned and very much like she might quit her job at any moment.

“Someone here to see you and Inspector McGray, sir. Says she’s not expected but she also _is_. I…I didn’t really understand it, sir, but she’s dressed funny and she’s not going anywhere, and given, uh, your job and everything…” She trails off and stares at him desperately, probably fondly remembering the days when all she had to deal with was his uncle’s drunken antics and salacious flirtations.

“Very well,” Ian says, following her to the entry hall.

He almost trips over his own feet when he spots McGray coming down the stairs, and McGray halts himself, the clench of his jaw telling. Ian focuses back on the task at hand and tries not to think about the fact that McGray clearly hasn’t shaved today and how well the faint shadow looks on him.

The woman in the hall is draped in pale pink cloth and there are feathers in her hair, and for a moment Ian thinks it’s Madame Katerina and is immensely relieved to realise she’s taller and thinner with freckles across her nose, right up until she opens her mouth and says, “Madame Katerina sent me,” and that’s possibly even _worse_ than having to deal with the woman herself.

McGray, on the other hand, lights up, happy enough to shoot Ian a look that says “Hah!”

Ian rolls his eyes.

“I’m Rose,” the women says, holding out a hand for McGray and offering Ian a knowing smile instead. “I heard you may need some assistance.”

“No,” Ian says, at the same time McGray says, “Aye.”

They glare at each other, and Ian refuses to look away first.

“ _Aye_ ,” McGray says, pointedly. “And any friend o’ Katerina’s is a friend o’ mine.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Inspector, though I fear it’s not your trust I need.” She glances around the room before settling the full force of her gaze on Ian. “That’s a very mischievous spirit you’ve got attached to you there, Inspector Frey. It’s even had it’s claws in you, if I’m not mistaken.”

Ian folds his arms defensively. “Apparently.”

Rose walks over to the nearest wall and slowly trails her fingers along the paper, following the curves of the house. Ian and McGray follow her until she reaches the hall outside the study where she comes to a sudden stop.

“ _Very_ mischievous,” she says under her breath, and then, seemingly out of nowhere: “I’m sorry for your loss, Inspector Frey.”

“I—” Ian starts, tripping over himself at the sudden change to polite conversation. “Thank you.”

“My words aren’t arbitrary,” Rose says, kindly. “I can feel your grief, you see. It’s in the very walls. So much pain and anger and loneliness. The spirit feels it too. The negative energy feeds it into existence.”

Ian opens his mouth for a rebuttal but he can’t find the words, and when he looks to McGray for help, McGray’s watching him with a soft expression that Ian hates and craves all at once.

“Can you stop it?” he asks eventually, and Rose’s smile is sweet.

“Yes,” she says. “I can.”

“What do ye need?” McGray asks, standing up tall and turning to Rose.

She glances between them, and Ian still refuses to believe that Madame Katerina is anything but a charlatan, but Rose’s stare is piercing and for a moment he thinks she really can see into his mind.

“I need Inspector Frey close but safe,” she says pointedly, and McGray frowns in confusion even as Ian grasps exactly what she’s saying.

It’s bad enough he may have to start believing in ghosts after this, let alone psychics.

“Your room,” Ian says when McGray still doesn’t catch on, and McGray’s surprise is evident.

“All right,” he says eventually, and Rose nods in satisfaction and wanders away. Ian wonders if he should warn the staff, but then he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of them since the young maid practically ran from the room so he expects they’re all safely tucked away exchanging gossip and reminiscing about the days when their master attracted women, not ghosts.

The walk to McGray’s room seems to take forever. Ian’s heart is beating so hard it may burst from his chest, and his eyes keep catching on McGray ahead of him; the tug of his arms in the shirt a little too small, the broadness of his shoulders, the curl of his hair at the nape of his neck. 

Despite evidence to the contrary, it’s possible he really _is_ going mad.

McGray goes to stand by the window as Ian shuts the door behind them, and then there’s a silence so crippling Ian wonders if he wouldn’t be better off facing the possible poltergeist.

“Ye feel safe in here?” McGray asks eventually, not turning away from the sight of the paddocks across the lawn. 

It’s a telling question. Once, Ian would have believed it a precursor to mockery, but they haven’t been those people in some time.

“I feel safe when we’re together,” he admits. “Somehow we always seem to make it out fairly unscathed.”

The last is partly a joke, but McGray finally turns around.

“Ye dinnae come out o’ the last one too unscathed,” he says, and Ian swallows hard and sinks back against the door.

“No,” he says, “I suppose I didn’t.”

“And ye still feel safe here?” McGray says, and means ‘You still feel safe with _me_?’ He takes a few careful steps closer, and Ian watches him.

“It’s about the only place I _do_ feel safe.”

The tension in the air is so thick you could cut it with a knife, and Ian’s spent the entire day trying not to think of all the revelations he’d experienced the night before, and not been able to focus on anything else. 

He could panic about it all, but he’s been forced to realise lately that life is short and evil’s everywhere, and then — somewhere amidst it all — there’s McGray.

An anchor, always.

“I like it when yer honest,” McGray says, and Ian’s smile feels dry.

“Speaking of honesty,” he says, “why did _you_ kiss _me_?”

McGray’s cheeks flush, and Ian thinks it may be one of the best things he’s seen.

“Yer not hard on the eyes,” McGray answers crassly, and Ian glares, refusing to let him get away with it even as the compliment lodges in his chest.

“And?”

“ _And,_ ” McGray says, “I dinnae ken. Yer a pain in the neck, and yer taste in drink is shite, and youse’ve got the detective rulebook shoved so far up yer arse I’m surprised we ever get _anything_ done, but…you’re… _we’re_ …” He waves a hand in the air, and the last piece of the puzzle Ian was waiting for settles into place.

“We’re _us_?” he guesses, and McGray’s shoulders slump.

“Aye.”

“This is _terrible_ timing,” Ian says, and all he can feel is a giddy sense of relief.

McGray snorts. “Nah, we’re not being chased by witches or fuckin’ bloodsuckers.”

“True,” Ian agrees. Even the mention of the Kolomans and Nelapsis can’t bring him down, not right now.

There’s a gentle knock on the door behind him, and they share a look before Ian opens it. 

“Hello,” Rose says, peeking through the gap. “You’re all clear.”

“…Really?” Ian asks, frowning, and Rose’s laugh sounds like a wind chime.

“Really,” she says. “I’m glad you’re happier, it made it infinitely easier. The house will smell of burnt herbs for a while, and you may want to vacate until the emotional resonance has equalised, but otherwise your nasty guest is gone.”

It all seems far too easy, but Rose is adamant and Ian is loathe to admit it, but he _believes_ her.

If McGray does insist of keeping a psychic in his confidence, Ian wonders if he can persuade him to at least change his allegiances.

“Are ye sure we cannae get ye anything, hen?” McGrey asks again as Rose takes her leave, donning a cloak that seems to glitter every time she moves.

“I’m sure,” she says, and that’s another mark in her favour in Ian’s opinion. “I’m glad to help. Besides, Katerina sends her love and says to tell Inspector Frey that he owes her one. I’ll pop by when you’re back next summer to check everything’s still all right, but there shouldn’t be any problems.”

Ian frowns, ignoring the comment about Madame Katerina completely. “I plan to come back over Christmas,” he says, and Rose’s smile is full of secrets.

“Oh, I know you _plan_ to,” she says, “but I fear you’ll be otherwise occupied.”

“A funny lass, that one,” McGray says as they watch her go down the drive, seemingly unconcerned about the long walk into town.

Ian hums in agreement. "I like her."

They make their way into the library, and Ian pours them both a strong drink, conscious of the very space McGray occupies. It’s probably the only reason he doesn’t drop the glasses when McGray’s arms sneak around his waist, tugging him until Ian’s back in pressed to McGray’s chest.

McGray tucks his nose in the curve of Ian’s neck, and Ian bites back a moan.

“Hello,” he says, stupidly, and McGray laughs into his skin.

“Hello,” he echoes, and Ian’s sure he shouldn’t feel this happy.

It’s possible — _possible_ — that ghosts are real, and it’s possible that psychics aren’t all frauds, and it’s possible that Ian’s been rather blind about his own feelings for longer than he cares to admit.

It’s a lot to unravel.

Right now, though, McGray’s turning him in his arms until they’re chest to chest, and Ian’s heart is racing as McGray tilts his chin up with gentle fingers.

“I’m gonna kiss ye now,” he says, and it sound like the first time but _better_ because Ian knows he’s awake.

“Yes,” he says, and leans up to capture McGray’s lips first.

McGray groans and hold him tighter, and Ian melts into it, not as surprised as he’s sure he should be to find the close circle of McGray’s arms thrilling. They kiss until Ian’s lips feel bruised, until he can’t catch his breath. McGray’s practically lifting him onto the bar, and that’s another thing Ian hadn’t known he wanted; if he’d thought about it, he'd probably have said that being manhandled would feel distinctly emasculating. Instead the strength of it has him lightheaded, arching into McGray’s body, and wondering what it would feel like to be pinned against a bed, a wall, _anywhere_.

He wants McGray in every way, and it’s a revelation.

The house is still moving around them, and this isn’t the safety of their Edinburgh sanctuaries. When McGray goes to pull away, Ian chases his lips, before finally sighing in agreement.

“Can I come to your room tonight?” Ian asks, and it still feels like bravery even if he’s sure he knows the answer.

“Naw,” McGray says, and Ian’s heart sinks briefly before he sees the hot look in McGray’s eyes and the smirk tugging at the corners of his well-kissed mouth. “I dinnae ken about youse, but I’m ready to go home.”

He brushes the hair back from Ian’s temple, and Ian’s eyes flutter closed.

The thought of his Great King Street bed is more than a little enticing; the long, autumn Edinburgh nights in McGray’s company even more so, especially now, when their cases and arguments and achievements can be interrupted with hot kisses and hours spent tangled in sheets…

There’s still jobs he should see to, though. Still accounts to settle and papers to sign, and Ian’s never been one to shirk his responsibilities, even if he’s never had McGray’s clever hands to tempt him before.

“I—” he begins, but starts when there’s a loud knock on the door.

McGray takes several steps backwards, and Ian tries to straighten his shirt.

Neither can really do anything to make it look less obvious what they’ve been up to, but Ian really is a firm believer in plausible deniability.

“Excuse me sirs,” Layton says, looking politely ahead, expression perfectly neutral. Ian may have to give him a raise. “You’ve received a message from the local parson asking to urgently speak to you about, uh, your ‘unholy questions regarding sacrilegious occult activities and your divergence from God’s righteous path.’”

They stare at each other in horror for a moment before McGray’s expression morphs into amusement. 

Ian doesn't really blame him.

“ _Home_ ,” he says decidedly.

He can’t wait.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ...I won't even pretend I don't want to write about six domestic fluff sequels to this.


End file.
